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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26818630">the beginner's guide to the end of the world</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharktank/pseuds/sharktank'>sharktank</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream Team - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Adding character tags as they are introduced to the story, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Colourblind!George, Comedy, Dark Comedy, Demon!AU, Demon!Dream, Domestic Fluff, Dream Needs A Hug, Dream isn't stupid, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Humor, Gen, George Needs a Hug, He just finds humans exhausting and confusing, Homesickness, Human!George, Human!Wilbur, Hurt Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Hurt GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), I'm Going to Hell, Major Character Injury, No Smut, No shipping, Platonic Relationships, Serious Injuries, Temporary Character Death, Trauma, demon!Sapnap, it's funny I promise</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:55:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26818630</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sharktank/pseuds/sharktank</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"You like what you see?"</p><p>"You look like shit," George tells him.</p><p>"I look pretty good for a guy who died three hours ago."</p><p> </p><p>----------<br/>Dream - a demon from an alternative realm - gets lost in London. It's safe to say that being a person isn't as easy as it looks. His human companion definitely helps, though.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound &amp; Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream &amp; GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>253</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>811</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>** EDITED FOR TYPOS AND CLEAN UP - 28/12/2020 **</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>There is a man sitting at his kitchen island counter.</p><p> </p><p>“Uhh.”</p><p> </p><p>Said man turns around when he notices George. “Oh. You <em> are </em>here.”</p><p> </p><p>The first thing that clues George into the fact that he isn’t from anywhere around here is his lilting American accent; then it’s his tan, deep and golden.</p><p> </p><p>Although he's sitting down, he looks tall with long, lean limbs that seem to constantly shift as if he's got no idea what he's supposed to do with himself. Crammed underneath a yellow (green?) hoodie is a tousled, unbrushed head of dirty gold. He observes George with warm overconfidence from behind a pair of clear-framed glasses. Dark circles mar the skin underneath them.</p><p> </p><p>“That’s because I live here,” George spells out slowly. “You… don’t. Why are you in my flat?” He squints at his watch, his eyes still feeling bleary from sleeping. “Are you here to fix my dishwasher?”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what that is,” the man replies simply.</p><p> </p><p>George blinks.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m your new roommate!”</p><p> </p><p>George blinks again. “Get out of my flat.”</p><p> </p><p>“Were you… <em> not </em>looking for a roommate?”</p><p> </p><p>The Brit isn't sure what he's feeling right now, but whatever it is, he definitely does not feel threatened. The unexpected apperance of an American attempting to move himself into his apartment is definitely strange, but he feels oddly indifferent about it. It's safe to say he didn't think he'd ever be faced with the dilemma of asking an exceedingly friendly lamp post to leave his home.</p><p> </p><p>“No… no, I was.” George stumbles over his words. “I guess. That doesn’t mean you can’t just invite yourself into my kitchen and declare yourself my roommate. That isn’t how it works. Just… get out before I call the police.” He reaches out to scoop his cat protectively into his arms. “Please.”</p><p> </p><p>“How-”</p><p> </p><p>“Get out!”</p><p> </p><p>If the 180 in tone phased the stranger, he doesn’t show it. “Okay, okay,” the man says easily, stepping off the kitchen island stool and backing towards the door. “But, uh, can I just ask you something before you go? Please?”</p><p> </p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p> </p><p>“How<em> does </em> it work?”</p><p> </p><p>Exhausted, George massages the bridge of his nose. “This cannot be happening,” he mutters under his breath. “Look. Ask your parents or something. Just don’t come back to me when you figure it out. I don’t want to live with you nearly as much as you want to live with me.”</p><p> </p><p>It seems to take the man a couple of seconds to register what he's talking about. “I, uhh, don’t really have anywhere else to go," he says eventually.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ll work it out.” George just wanted him gone.</p><p> </p><p>“Alright.”</p><p> </p><p>The man finally opens the door, shoots him a charming smile and disappears.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George doesn’t see the man again,</p><p> </p><p>It’s nearly three weeks later. He’s streamed seven times during that period and during none of them did he think to bring up the stranger who appeared in his apartment.</p><p> </p><p>He <em>does </em>bring it up to Wilbur, however, who suggests that George changes his locks and calls the police. Though he doesn't follow through with the latter, he asks his landlord about changing his locks, who warmly agrees with the decision and sends people over to do it before the week is over. The stranger hadn't felt imposing or dangerous, but it's comforting to know that there's now a smaller chance of it happening again.</p><p> </p><p>The rain drumming against the windowpane is so heavy he thinks it could shatter them. Blotting out the sun in the early evening above the London skyline are clouds, dark and looming, with thunder rolling through the distance with it's fierce roar. It's comforting; in the peace of the rain pattering against the glass and the flashes of lightning that split the horizon in half, George basks.</p><p> </p><p>Patches is generally pretty keen on spending as much time as possible with George, especially when it comes to feeding time. She twists her body in and out of his legs, purring like an engine, rubbing her fur affectionally against his sweatpants as he scoops up her bowl and squeezes a pouch of cat food into it.</p><p> </p><p>“You’re such a goober,” George comments, stepping over his cat to put her bowl down on the mat beside the bin.</p><p> </p><p>She doesn’t touch it. Her head snaps towards the door.</p><p> </p><p>Seconds later, something heavy slams into it with a loud crash. The sound of two people shouting profanities just outside of his apartment snatches the peace of the thunderstorm away. They sound riled up; George is sure he can hear them threatening one another with violence.</p><p> </p><p>“I love London’s ambience,” he says passively to Patches.</p><p> </p><p>Ever since he's moved into the complex, the two people who live on either side of him have always been at each other’s throats. They’re constantly arguing about this and that, at all times of the day, with little regard towards anyone else who is nearby. The only reason George doesn't really care for it is because he rarely, if at all, has to see or talk to them. Not only that, but they don't even make that much noise when they're not scrapping outside of his door. Him as well as every other surrounding tenant have all complained to the landlord, but he suspects that the only reason they've yet to be kicked out is because she's too frightened to do it.</p><p> </p><p>Although he’s used to them causing a ruckus, he’s curious by nature, so he moves closer to the door to get a better idea of what they’re arguing about.</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got some nerve making that much noise this late at night,” one of them snaps.</p><p> </p><p>“Go back outside,” the other one says.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Gowan.”</p><p> </p><p>They’re agreeing on something for once. George’s eyebrows cock in surprise and he looks back at Patches as if his cat is supposed to know what’s going on. There must be a third person involved; they're fucked. Neither of his neighbours are happy to see them.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t be such a fairy,” the first says.</p><p> </p><p>Someone else cries out, “wait-!”</p><p> </p><p>“Fucking <em>yank.”</em></p><p> </p><p>At this, George’s stomach flips.</p><p> </p><p>“I just need to- wait, let me go!”</p><p> </p><p>The American accent.</p><p> </p><p>Cruel laughter erupts and George flings his door open.</p><p> </p><p>Trapped underneath his two neighbours, a pair of gangly legs clad in filthy, shredded jeans lie splayed out on the ground. One of them has his arms pinned against his spine at an uncomfortable angle with his thick, heavy boots; the other one has his shoe on the back of his neck as if he were demonstrating some sort of twisted power performance. By the looks of his limp, unmoving feet, their victim is already unconscious. This serves as no surprise to George. Trust these two neanderthals to only work together at something when it involves unnecessary, most likely unprovoked violence.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a pair of clear-framed glasses discarded on the ground, snapped in half where they rest on the bridge of one’s nose, with one of the lenses popped out of the frame and cracked. Heart skipping a beat out of recognition, George swipes them off the ground. “Wait, stop! Let, uh, let him up."</p><p> </p><p>The neighbour with his boot on the back of the stranger’s neck turns to look up at him. He’s an overweight and unhealthy-looking man who reeks of cigarettes and alcohol every time they cross paths; George doesn’t even want to imagine what the inside of his apartment looks like. He is definitely the kind of person that George would feel uncomfortable sitting close to on public transport without holding onto his backpack tighter. "You're a nice lad," he starts loudly; drunkenly. "You don't need to save this cunt. It's not like we're killing 'im."</p><p> </p><p>“Just making sure he never shows his face ‘round ‘ere again.” The other neighbour - equally unhealthy and unattractive - looks as if he's a hunter posing with his kill. It makes George feel sick.</p><p> </p><p>George doesn't know the stranger under their feet very much, but that doesn’t mean he wants him to end up shanked and bleeding out in some alleyway. Luckily, he's always been quick-thinking. “That’s, uh, my new roommate," he lies. "I’m sorry if he… did anything he shouldn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s silence.</p><p> </p><p>“Your roommate.”</p><p> </p><p>George nods slowly; reluctantly. “Yep. My roommate.”</p><p> </p><p>Neither of them look convinced, but they stand back from the limp body on the ground nonetheless. “Thought he was a homeless bloke looking to nick stuff,” one of them boasts, laughing loudly, as if the comment was the most hilarious thing in the world.</p><p> </p><p>“By the looks of ‘im,” the other one adds.</p><p> </p><p>They laugh together. It's a cruel and twisted sound.</p><p> </p><p>It’s pleasant to see them get along for once, but George isn’t paying attention to them much; he's got something new on his mind. The man lying motionless on the floor between the three of them is definitely who he thinks it is. It would be lying to say that George was happy to see him again, especially like this, but he's decent enough of a person to at least bring him into his flat before he gets thrown into the cold again.</p><p> </p><p>When he grabs the stranger by the armpits, his hoodie is soaked and icy cold to the touch. Only God knows how long he'd been lurking around in the rain before he'd come inside the complex. He drags him towards his door, left ajar from when he flung it open. It’s a good thing Patches isn’t really interested in leaving his apartment. “I’ll be taking him inside now,” he says awkwardly.</p><p> </p><p>“Sorry ‘bout that, mate,” one of his neighbours says nonchalantly, as if he didn't just commit assualt and battery. They’re already aware that George probably won’t call the police; no matter how much he knows they probably deserve to get arrested and removed from society, he also knows that the police probably won’t get anywhere. They haven’t in the past and they won’t today.</p><p> </p><p>“‘s alright,” he replies, “I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>After that, the neighbours’ conversation becomes but a gentle buzz in the background. George focuses on dragging the stranger into the living room where the carpet is softest. The man is much heavier than his lean frame implies - his wet clothes probably do him no favours - and so he doesn’t bother trying to get him onto the couch; instead he simply rests him on the ground between the coffee table and the TV and places a pillow underneath his head.</p><p> </p><p>Now that he’s in proper light, George can finally see the extent of the damage.</p><p> </p><p>Considering the situation, it could have been worse. Fresh bruises mar his cheek and jaw where a fist or two must have hit him; there are older ones just about everywhere else. They're beginning to yellow out, fading into his natural tan. His blonde hair looks unwashed and dirty and there are rips on his clothes that weren't there when they'd first encountered each other. Whatever happened to him in the period of time between their introduction and now, it can't have been much fun.</p><p> </p><p>George is starting to notice some new details too; honey-brown freckles smattering his nose and cheek; a healed cut on his lip; a thin, white scar starting at the corner of his left eye and ending at his temple. The few rings on his fingers have left deep imprints on his skin from where they've been pressed down too hard by his neighbour's heavy working boots.</p><p> </p><p>The slightest slither of sympathy squeezes his heart.</p><p> </p><p>“Patches, eat your dinner,” he says to his cat - who is sitting on the kitchen island countertop side-eyeing the man lying on the floor - as he stands up to wet an old towel in the sink.</p><p> </p><p>Very cautiously, he wipes as much dirt as he can off the man’s skin with the towel and tries to get his hair looking a little less gross and matted. He takes the rings off his fingers and leaves them in a bowl on the coffee table while he cleans his hands up a little. It’s then that he notices just how <em> cold </em>he is; touching his damp skin is like putting his fingers against a block of ice. Taking off his wet hoodie and jeans is a little far outside of his comfort zone, even though that's probably the best solution there is to warming him up outside of throwing him into a fireplace.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh yeah,” George says out loud, and finds a blanket to put over him. He’s already got the heating running (his complex’s thin walls let out a lot of heat when it gets cold and wet later on in the year like this) but he cranks it up another few notches anyway.</p><p> </p><p>He stands back to admire his work. The stranger probably won’t feel too great when he eventually wakes up, but he hopes he’ll at least feel at least slightly fresher now that he’s been cleaned up a little.</p><p> </p><p>Too uncomfortable to leave the man alone in his own flat, George fixes up a cup of tea, takes out the man’s broken glasses and begins repairing them as best he can from the kitchen island counter.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Half an hour passes. Concerned, George peers over at the stranger for the fifteenth time, only to see that nothing has changed and that the man remains motionless. There’s a touch more colour to his face and his lips are no longer blue, so at least he isn’t as cold and wet as he was earlier, although his clothes are still damp and smells like stale rainwater.</p><p> </p><p>He wonders how long the stranger had been outside in the storm; what he was doing in the last couple weeks where George didn’t see or think about him at all. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem like he was exactly thriving. By the looks of his clothes, his hair, and his face, his unsightly neighbours are probably correct; he’s homeless.</p><p> </p><p>This realisation makes him feel guilty. He’d kicked a man with no home onto the streets with little thought or care; with no attempt to check if he’d be alright on his own. If he were more quick-thinking at the time, he’d probably have checked the stranger into the hospital, because no one who is sane would behave as he did.</p><p> </p><p>Whatever. What's done is done.</p><p> </p><p>Patches, who has finally grown comfortable with the lifeless man in their living room, stalks towards his body curiously.</p><p> </p><p>“Patches,” George warns.</p><p> </p><p>Because Patches is a cat, she ignores George. She stops when she’s beside the man and cautiously sniffs his hands and hoodie with a gentle black nose. A paw tenitavely touches his stomach, as if she is deciding whether or not it’s worth standing on him. “Patches,” George says again, putting down his phone and standing up. He knew he should have locked his cat in his bedroom. “Come on, leave him- oh, SHIT-”</p><p> </p><p>It plays out like a scene in a movie; Patches suddenly sits back on her haunches and playfully springs her chubby body onto the stranger’s chest. The moment her weight lands on him, he screams and sits up, and Patches is launched across the room with incredible velocity. George shouts too, startled by all of the unexpected, fast-paced action, scrambling to shelter behind the kitchen counter out of instinct.</p><p> </p><p>“Woah,” the stranger mutters, voice deep and raspy.</p><p> </p><p>“Stupid cat,” George grouches as he recollects himself. “Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s no reply. The stranger rubs sleepily at the side of his head and then at his eyes. When he looks up again, he appears a little more alert. “You again,” he observes, as if it’s a surprise that George is inside his own apartment.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Uh, do you remember what happened?”</p><p> </p><p>The man doesn’t even seem to be listening. Instead he starts to clamber to his feet with the grace and elegance of a newborn baby deer learning to walk, to which George rushes forward to ease him back down again. His hands push gently at his chest. "Woah, slow down," he tells the man firmly. "You got knocked in the head pretty hard. Can you tell me if you remember anything that happened? Uhh, your name?”</p><p> </p><p>The stranger slaps his hand away, but doesn’t try to move again. “Being a person is hard to get used to,” is all he offers.</p><p> </p><p>George seriously considers taking this man to a psych ward.</p><p> </p><p>“Just stay there,” he says and disappears into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. When he comes back, the man is sitting upright, staring at his hands as if he’d just seen them for the first time. “Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“My eyes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Your eyes?” George’s brow furrows. “Oh. You want your glasses, right?”</p><p> </p><p>The man makes urgent grabby hands at him. George passes him the water bottle first, before cautiously pulling the glasses out of his pocket. There’s a thick layer of glue and tape holding the middle together and he’d carefully popped the cracked lense back into the frame. They’d do for now. “They were broken when I found them. I fixed them as best I could.”</p><p> </p><p>Their desperate state doesn't appear to phase him. He puts them on and blinks as his eyes readjust. “This is how it should be,” he informs himself.</p><p> </p><p>George's eyebrow twitches. This man’s behaviour is odd; he acts as if he doesn’t quite know how to be a person. It’s strange, sure, but it’s also amusing and, dare he say it, rather endearing.</p><p> </p><p>Stepping away from the stranger, George asks again, “what’s your name?”</p><p> </p><p>“Dream.”</p><p> </p><p>“Is… is that a nickname?”</p><p> </p><p>The stranger bites his lip, thinking. “No,” he tells him eventually. “That’s my name. Dream.”</p><p> </p><p>George wrinkles his nose in thought. Not conventional, but why should he care?  “That’s a cool name. Uh, where did you say you were from?”</p><p> </p><p>“Hell.” He slaps his hand across his mouth. “Florida.”</p><p> </p><p>The Brit notes the olive tan and the accent again. It screams Floridian.  “Why'd you come here?"</p><p> </p><p>Dream makes a face. "I don't know if I can tell you that. I woke up in your living room."</p><p> </p><p>That isn’t what George meant, but he doesn’t push it.</p><p> </p><p>With an internally harrowed sigh, Dream climbs to his feet. Although he looks exhausted, his condition has definitely improved; he seems more alert and aware of his surroundings if the way he's side-eyeing Patches is any indicator. Now that he's standing upright, it dawns on George for the first time that Dream is absolutely gigantic. He towers over George effortlessly. It's no wonder he was so heavy to drag.</p><p> </p><p>“Sit on the couch,” George tells him. “How’s your head?”</p><p> </p><p>“What happened to me?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uhh.” George goes to make another cup of tea for him and finds a chilled can of Coke for Dream. The sugar will help him feel a little more energised. “My neighbours thought you were an intruder. They roughed you up a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>“That’s why my head and,” he gestures vaguely to himself, “everything else hurts.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” George replies, because what else is there to say? “Here, take this. The sugar will help you feel less tired.”</p><p> </p><p>It takes Dream two entire minutes to work out the fact that he had to pull the tab on the top in order to open the can. George doesn’t offer to help; partly because he’s never met a single person who doesn’t know how to open a can and he was too nervous to mention it, but mostly because it was amusing.</p><p> </p><p>Though he’s <em>definitely</em> weird, George finds he doesn’t mind having the guy around. He appears to be a perfectly nice human being, albeit a little spacy, but that could just be the haze from getting boxed in the head earlier. It doesn’t feel like he’s going to get robbed and left bleeding out on the ground if he lets the man stay over for the night.</p><p> </p><p>Besides, he isn’t going to let Dream back out onto the streets for now. It’s getting colder and wetter by the day, now, and he’s slightly concerned over the taller man’s mental space. He makes a silent agreement with himself to take him to a hospital tomorrow afternoon if he’s still acting strangely by then.</p><p> </p><p>“This.” Dream takes a satisfied swig, and then another one. “This does it for me. The fizz. The taste. The cold.”</p><p> </p><p>George watches him carefully. “Right,” he says. “Don’t drink that too fast.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have to savour it,” Dream agrees quickly.</p><p> </p><p>The Brit’s eyebrow twitches again, but he’s smiling.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>comments would be nice!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>** EDITS MADE 26/12/2020 **</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Though often confused about the simple things in life, such as the concept of money and keeping pets in the same house as people, Dream makes a considerate roommate.</p><p> </p><p>The morning after George had discovered the taller man getting his shit kicked in outside of his apartment, he had padded into the living room to find a Dream with much more energy and vigor compared to the previous evening. One can only assume he slept (on the couch - George may be a nice guy, but he isn’t ‘you can take my bed’ nice) for he seemed to have much less fog knocking around in his brain.</p><p> </p><p>However, that didn’t mean Dream made any more sense. Although George no longer had plans to take this man to see a medical professional, there are times throughout the day when he wonders if he should backtrack on this decision. There was no serious reasoning for this; nothing that made him feel genuine concern for his mental space. </p><p> </p><p>George supposes he’s just never met anyone quite like Dream.</p><p> </p><p>For instance, Dream is constantly concerned for George’s physical wellbeing. For the two days he’s been inside of his apartment, he’s asked him whether he needs food or a drink at least thirty times. George isn’t complaining - he’s not particularly good at remembering to eat and drink when he should and Dream is extremely routine with his queries - but he thinks it is a little excessive for someone who he has only just met.</p><p> </p><p>However, this means that Dream often has to deal with electrical kitchen appliances on his own. There’s being technophobic and then there’s Dream; he understands the basic idea of items such as microwaves and kettles, but he is absolutely clueless when it comes to using them. It isn’t unusual for him to request George’s assistance when it comes down to making or reheating simple foods.</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t all bad. Dream is a quick learner and masters the microwave within fifteen minutes.</p><p> </p><p>For someone who is on top of George’s physical health, he definitely isn’t on top of his own. George has yet to see him eat or drink something. Every time he’s offered to fix something up for him, it’s immediately turned down. The only thing George has actually seen him consume is the can of Diet Coke he’d been given upon waking up in his living room.</p><p> </p><p>Like a scientist studying an anomaly, George decides to monitor this behaviour for the time being.</p><p> </p><p>Mission number one: find food Dream likes to eat.</p><p> </p><p>“Dream.” George nudges the door to the living room open.</p><p> </p><p>The taller man looks up from where he’s playing with Patches on the floor. He looks a lot better after a much-needed shower; his hair is soft and there's less dirt marring his skin. The freshest of his bruises are already lightening up. Not only that, but George had taken it upon himself to clean and dry his clothes, despite their wear and tear. The only item he couldn’t scavenge was his jeans, but these were replaced with a pair of black sweatpants that George had accidentally purchased a few sizes too big a couple of months ago. They happen to be an almost-perfect fit. </p><p> </p><p>Patches playfully sinks her claws into the carpet beside the elastic band that Dream is flicking around in front of her face. It makes Dream laugh loudly.  “Stupid cat,” he comments. “Can’t even catch the rubber circle. Stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dream, I need to go food shopping,” he says. “Can you come with me? I want to know what you like to eat so I can buy for you too.”</p><p> </p><p>“Where?”</p><p> </p><p>“Tescos. Down the road. Two minute walk.”</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what that is.” Dream warmly pats Patches between her ears and stands up.</p><p> </p><p>The shorter boy’s eyebrow twitches. “That’s because you’re from Florida.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Florida.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It’s a reasonably quiet early afternoon and so there’s few people lurking in the store. George doesn’t need much in terms of food for himself, but he’s determined to find something that Dream will eat before the man withers away and dies from malnutrition in his apartment. That would be difficult to explain to the landlord.</p><p> </p><p>There isn’t much Dream seems to particularly like. In fact, he seems pretty passive about most of the suggestions George offers, leaving the ultimate decision of whether or not he purchases it up to him. </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, do you have any allergies?”</p><p> </p><p>Dream looks up. He’s cradling a watermelon. “I don’t know.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. That’s handy.”</p><p> </p><p>He opens a cardboard egg carton to inspect the shells for any prominent cracks. However, he should’ve known better than to take his eye off Dream for when he looks up again, the taller man has completely and utterly disappeared from his side. He’s alone in the aisle. Concern immediately grasps his heart. “Dream?” he calls out. “Dream, where’d you go?”</p><p> </p><p>There’s no response.</p><p> </p><p>George curses. He feels like he’s just lost track of an easily-distracted puppy. Or an adventurous toddler.</p><p> </p><p>However, it isn’t long before he comes across said toddler standing in the snacks aisle, bewildered at the sight of the sheer volume of (presumably) brightly-coloured plastic wrappers, hands hanging limply at his sides. It’s as if he’s just seen something absolutely beautiful and tear-jerking; something more substantial than the limited selection in a Tesco Express. “There’s a… this is a <em> lot,” </em>he comments as soon as George wanders into the aisle towards him.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” George says slowly, eyebrow cocked. If it takes bright colours to get Dream to consume, so be it. “Do you want any? Choose anything you want. It’s on the house. Uh, obviously.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ve never eaten before.”</p><p> </p><p>George squints at him.</p><p> </p><p>“This.” Dream corrects himself. “I’ve never eaten any of <em> this </em> before.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. America has different sweets to us. There’s probably some stuff here you’ve never even heard of.” The Brit considers the options before taking out five different candy brands of various substances. “Let’s try it tonight then. We can, uhh, watch a movie or something.”</p><p> </p><p>George was supposed to stream more Minecraft SMP content tonight, but he thinks it can wait until tomorrow. Sitting down with Dream and actively spending time with him might give him a chance to learn more about him, such as why he appeared in George’s apartment and whether or not he has someone to go back home to. Besides, he’s been streaming and editing a lot lately; watching a movie with his strange new friend is a welcome break.</p><p> </p><p>As the cashier is scanning their items, George regards Dream. The taller man looks deep in thought, eyes wandering aimlessly over the food lying on the conveyor belt. He wrings his fingers together constantly. There’s something odd about him; this is definitely not a fresh discovery by any means, but the more time George spends with him, the more he thinks about it.</p><p> </p><p>Now that Dream has had time to settle in and recover from the ordeal he experienced outside of his apartment, George reckons it’s a good time to start asking questions. He’s got to know if there’s anybody waiting for him to come home; how a man from Florida has ended up bewildered and lost in London; how long he’s planning on sticking around before he eventually has to say goodbye.</p><p> </p><p>It would be lying to say that George wanted Dream gone. Though he's a bit of an oddball, Dream fills the hole in his lonesome apartment close to perfectly. Sure, he's always had Patches, but there is a stark difference between the company of a cat and the company of a human being. He makes for pleasant company; he's easy to get along with and interesting, all the while constantly considering George's wellbeing and comfort. The Brit has found that he's really enjoyed having Dream kicking around his living space.</p><p> </p><p>It just… isn’t realistic.</p><p> </p><p>Dream appeared in his kitchen one morning and George didn’t really question it. Then, a couple of weeks later, Dream is suddenly getting his shit kicked in outside of his apartment again. Out of pity, George had welcomed him into his home; now he’s standing beside him in a Tescos Express, staring at the snacks with stars in his eyes. For fuck's sake, they're planning a <em>movie night.</em> There’s no way that this story ends with Dream staying here forever. There has to be someone out there looking for him; someone waiting for him to come home again.</p><p> </p><p>For now, though, this is okay. George will get the answers he needs and he’ll go from there.</p><p> </p><p>Easy-fucking-peasy.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Hey, Dream?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>“Have you… is there anyone waiting for you to come home?”</p><p> </p><p>Dream sucks in a deep breath. He's been waiting for this; the interrogation.</p><p> </p><p>He’d left Sapnap in Hell when he’d accidentally crossed into Earth. His best friend had been the last thing he'd been looking at before everything went black; his shining eyes; his face alight with laughter at Dream's antics.</p><p> </p><p>Only, his aforementioned antics backfired, for by the time he’d woken up again the portal was gone and all of a sudden he was lying in some part of the Earth where it always seemed to be cold and no one really paid attention to you. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out he was in London once he’d figured out how to use the meatsuit he was suddenly wearing. That’s what happens when a demon crosses from Hell to Earth; their energy cannot survive on its own, so it automatically inhabits the closest thing that can.</p><p> </p><p>In Dream’s case, the closest living creature had been some young man with particularly terrible eyesight who had been lying in a puddle in some dark London backstreet. He doesn’t know whether or not the man was dead or alive at the time he inhabited his body, but it doesn’t matter anymore. Chances are that once he finds his way home, he’s going to leave this body to die where he found it anyway. The average human body - especially a dead one - often cannot handle the toll a demon leaves on it's flesh and soul.</p><p> </p><p>It’s unfortunate, but that’s just the way it is.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he replies honestly. “My best friend."</p><p> </p><p>“No family?”</p><p> </p><p>“He <em>is </em>my family."</p><p> </p><p>The demon must have a somber expression on his face, because George looks upset and pauses the movie. The snacks they’d purchased just a couple of hours ago lay untouched on the coffee table.</p><p> </p><p>“Tell me about them."</p><p> </p><p>An unexpected but welcome invitation. There’s some things he has to leave out if he wants to keep moonlighting as a human being, but Dream could talk about Sapnap <em>forever.</em></p><p> </p><p>He tells George what he thinks is safe; about how he's always joking about this and that, but in reality he will fight fiercely to protect those he cares about, and will always make sure they have what they need before he worries about himself. Sapnap has a chilled, easygoing personality that makes him a very pleasant demon to get along with and it's because of this that they've been companions for as long as they have. Their personalites fit together like two pieces in a puzzle. There's no one who understands him like Sapnap does.</p><p> </p><p>They've been alive for centuries and, since the beginning, they have been attached to the hip. They've argued, they've had disagreements, but even during periods of time where they didn't so much as look at each other, they had a connection and a relationship that Dream doesn't think he could find in any other creature on this plane of reality. Sapnap is the energy and light to Dream's life. There is nothing and no one Dream could ever value above his best friend. That's the way it's always been and that's the way it's going to stay until the day they die. </p><p> </p><p>What he wishes he could talk about is how Sapnap has a soft spot for human beings. The way they worry about such trivial concepts that they themselves invented such as money and gender and sexuality is funny to him. He's always talking about how entertaining it is that they have to 'die for hours every day' in order to maintain proper functionality; Dream has never thought to clarify that humans don't actually die when they sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Dream thinks that Sapnap would like being lost on Earth much more than he does.</p><p> </p><p>Not that Dream isn’t enjoying his time on Earth. No, it’s very challenging trying to be a human being, and he’s always loved to challenge himself. He would have thought that he’d be better at it after spending a lot of time watching how they work but there’s a lot of little details he never noticed that every human being is just... supposed to know. Automatically.</p><p> </p><p>For example, he understands that human beings need to eat food and drink water in order to live, but he isn’t sure how often they’re supposed to do that. The demon also didn’t realise that some foods require preparation before they eat it. This only dawned upon him after George told him that he can’t eat the raw fillet of chicken that he offered to him when they came home from the store.</p><p> </p><p>He also knows what curse words are, but he doesn’t know when he is and isn’t meant to use them. That’s something he’s going to have to figure out later down the line.</p><p> </p><p>“He sounds really nice,” George says quietly. “Do you miss him?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. Every day.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why not go back home?”</p><p> </p><p>Dream pauses. “I… I don’t know how. I’m still trying to work that out.”</p><p> </p><p>The human looks deep in thought for a moment. Then, suddenly sounding more upbeat, he says to Dream, “I have this one really close friend, too. He lives<em> all </em> the way in Brighton, but I’ve known him for as long as I can remember. We met online and we’ve been best friends ever since.”</p><p> </p><p>Dream doesn’t know how people can meet online, but he doesn’t question it. “What’s his name?”</p><p> </p><p>“Wilbur." The human's face seems to light up just <em>talking </em>about him. "Wilbur does all these stupid things, like blowtorching his dinner for the fun of it, but he’s always been there for me. The first thing he does as soon as he wakes up is send me a good morning text and ask me if I’m doing okay. He doesn’t need to do that. It’s the little things that make me realise how lucky I am to have him.”</p><p> </p><p>“Wilbur is your Sapnap."</p><p> </p><p>“Wilbur is my Sapnap."</p><p> </p><p>The demon nods, content with this clarification. He’s glad to know that this human who has been so kind to him has someone who makes him happy.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to get you home.”</p><p> </p><p>He blinks. </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“Dream.” George places both hands on his shoulders and stares him directly in the eyes. “I, George Henry Davidson, hereby declare that you will make it home to your best friend. You and I are going to sit down tomorrow and work this out together. We are going to get you home to your family.”</p><p> </p><p>That’s going to prove impossible. Dream is aware of this. The only way George can even <em> begin </em> to help him get back home is if he sacrifices the identity he’s worked so hard to upkeep. There’s no way the human would trust him after that. Simple as that. He just can’t tell him the truth.</p><p> </p><p>One thing about the human society that has always left a bad taste in his mouth is their perception of demon-kind as ruthless, evil individuals. Sure, there are demons who are inexplicably disgusting, but there are human beings who aren’t much better. There are human beings who spend their lives hunting down and poaching the life out of animals simply for the thrill and some pieces of paper they call money. There are human beings who kill other human beings because they don't fit into the societal 'norm', even though the 'norm' doesn't exist in the first place. Human beings destroy the Earth they walk on and yet demon-kind are supposed to be the evil ones.</p><p> </p><p>He supposes it all comes down to what they know. Humans think they understand demons, but Dream has yet to come across much in terms of accurate information. This is intentional - demons don't want humans to know they exist. They never have. In reality, demon society behaves the same as any other society. There are the good and the wicked. They have routines. They have education. They have their own homes. They have parks and communal recreational areas for everyone to enjoy. There’s activities to do that humans don’t have, just as humans have things that demons don’t. It isn’t just hellfire and blood and torture. </p><p> </p><p>Not <em> all </em> of it.</p><p> </p><p>What they did get right, though, is that demons are superior in physicality to humans. They’re naturally stronger, more biologically advanced beings, even while inhabiting a human body. Dream has wings and horns and a tail, only they don't look like what they do within the pages of the human picture books. The only reason Dream didn’t kill those people who’d beaten him up within seconds is because he doesn’t like to hurt others when it isn’t a fair fight. Even if they deserve it.</p><p> </p><p>“Dream?”</p><p> </p><p>“Thanks, George,” he replies, because what else is there to say?</p><p> </p><p>George’s smile radiates warmth.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Humans seriously underrate the experience of shitting.”</p><p> </p><p>George blinks at Dream, eyes still bleary with sleep.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s true!”</p><p> </p><p>George hides his laughter by sticking his head in the fridge, scanning the contents for breakfast. The taller man had really pigged out on those snacks after they’d unpaused the movie yesterday evening, to the point where George barely got to eat any before it was all gone. The aftermath must have really been something special. “You’re something else,” is all he says.</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe.” Dream pets Patches between the ears. “Today is going to be a good day.”</p><p> </p><p>The Brit’s eyes keep wandering over the fridge until he locates the milk carton, placed in the vegetable drawer for some reason. Dream seems to be much more open and talkative today. Maybe their conversation yesterday did more than teach George about Dream’s personal life; maybe it caused Dream to realise that he’s allowed to be comfortable around him.</p><p> </p><p>“Tonight I’ll be streaming, so don’t make too much noise, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Streaming?”</p><p> </p><p>“I’ll tell you about it over breakfast.” George slams the carton down on the countertop. “Cereal?”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>comments really help me out!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>**EDITS MADE 26/12/2020**</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Streaming, as it turns out, is not a concept everyone understands.</p><p> </p><p>After spending the entirety of breakfast breaking down his career to him, Dream’s comprehension of the video creator community did not progress. The concept of people making a living off playing games in front of an engaged audience seemed to be completely and utterly alien to him.</p><p> </p><p>This doesn’t surprise George. The guy hardly knows how to use the shower, let alone a phone or a computer. There’s no way he’s going to understand what it means to be a Youtuber-slash-streamer over one bowl of cereal. Whoever raised this unorganised excuse for a human being did an unfortunately good job at sheltering him.</p><p> </p><p>Nevertheless, he agrees to give George his space while he’s streaming.</p><p> </p><p>That is, until he sets the kitchen on fire.</p><p> </p><p>It’s three hours into the stream and George’s view count has risen steadily past 30,000. Wilbur has been chattering in his ear for close to two hours now. With his consistently upbeat and charismatic attitude, he brings a unique energy to the stream that the audience absolutely drinks in. It improves George’s mood too. It’s impossible to feel down in the dumps when Wilbur is your best friend.</p><p> </p><p><em> “We should be past running out of stone at this point.” </em>Wilbur’s character darts around their chest room, opening each one as he goes. <em> “We have enchanted netherite armour, but we don’t have any cobblestone. None at all.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“It’s not my fault you make everything out of stone bricks,” George replies.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “It fucking- it looks good!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Then go get more, stupid!”</p><p> </p><p>Wilbur’s character punches him once before he’s sprinting out of the door towards the closest cave, brandishing a half-used iron pickaxe like it’s a trophy. It’s when George goes to follow him that he hears it; the shrill scream of his fire alarm.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What the fuck?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Panic arises in his chest. “I’ll be right back.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Ge- what the fuck!” </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>Without so much as a second though, George throws off his headphones and sprints to the kitchen. The putrid stench of burning food stings his sinuses. How he didn’t smell this through the door before the fire alarm started to blare, he has no idea.</p><p> </p><p>When he reaches the kitchen, he’s met with possibly the most hilarious scenario he’s ever had the displeasure of dealing with. His temporary roommate is fiercely cradling his cat - who, by the way, is entirely unphased and appears rather content with the spontaneous snuggle session - where he’s crouched behind the island counter. There’s a pan spitting a ferocious orange flame on the stovetop. Thick smoke that carries the stench settles on the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p>As George unceremoniously smacks the fire alarm until it's quiet, he notices there's even further destruction. Puddles of flour decorate the kitchen tiles as if it were the scene of a paintball match. There’s a haphazard pile on the countertop where it's clear that Dream accidentally dropped the bag and attempted to clean it up by finger-scooping it back in. He also realises that the yellow splodges on the floor in the middle of the kitchen is actually from an egg that appears to have been launched full-speed into the ceiling.</p><p> </p><p>“What,” George tosses the fire blanket over the flame, “did you do?”</p><p> </p><p>A blonde head pokes over the counter. His eyes scan the room for further danger. “Pancakes.”</p><p> </p><p>“Pancakes?”</p><p> </p><p>“For you! As a snack.”</p><p> </p><p>The Brit peers into the smoking pan. Whatever it is, it looks like it should be sentient. “This isn’t a pancake anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>He shows him the unidentifiable black slab glued to the bottom of the pan.</p><p> </p><p>The taller man observes it for a moment. “Looks alright to me.”</p><p> </p><p>If it were anyone else, George would be so<em> angry</em>. He would be absolutely fucking <em>fuming</em>. The state of his kitchen and the mysterious substance festering at the bottom of this pan is supposed to ignite an indescribable rage in him. It looks like it’s going to be a pain in the ass to clean up. He’s supposed to be streaming right now. He’s literally working!</p><p> </p><p>But he takes one look at Dream; at the way he’s still protectively cradling Patches in his gangly, hoodie-clad arms; at the consequences of the hurricane that apparently passed through his kitchen; and he just laughs.</p><p> </p><p>And laughs, and laughs, and laughs.</p><p> </p><p>However, Dream doesn’t laugh. He looks nervous as he watches George melt in the middle of his kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>After he’s sure he’s developed a six-pack, George manages to compose himself.</p><p> </p><p>Dream says, “I’ve never seen <em> anyone </em> do that before.”</p><p> </p><p>And he’s laughing again.</p><p> </p><p>“Scraping this block of radioactive waste from the bottom of this pan,” he giggles, “is going to qualify me for international bodybuilding competitions. How do you even do this? This isn’t remotely pancake-shaped, Dream!”</p><p> </p><p>It’s then that Dream seems to realise that George <em> isn’t </em>going to bite his head off for inventing an unidentifiable substance in his kitchen, because he releases the most glorious, breathless excuse for hysterics from his chest. It sounds like the kind of tea kettle you put on the stovetop with more bass; George doesn’t think he’s ever fallen apart faster at someone else’s laugh like this.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t,” Dream tries, but he’s laughing so hard that he can hardly speak in a coherent sentence, “put the pancake in a box. Who- who said it has to be a circle to qualify as a pancake? It can be rectangular! And- black!”</p><p> </p><p>George manages to pull himself together, but his grip is slipping fast. “You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met.”</p><p> </p><p>"You love me really," Dream says. “Go back to your- your thing. I’ll clean up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure you won’t destroy my kitchen again?”</p><p> </p><p>The American genuinely appears to be weighing his options. “...yes. I will not destroy your kitchen.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s hard to believe, but he’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for today. “Okay,” George says slowly. He pauses at the threshold of his bedroom door. “Are you <em> sure </em> you’re sure?”</p><p> </p><p>“Oh- just go!”</p><p> </p><p>“Okay, okay!””</p><p> </p><p>George sits down in front of his monitor and, as he begins to steady his fretting Twitch chat, he can’t help but think of how funny it is that the man who he initially kicked out of his apartment without a second thought is now cuddling with his cat and recreating Chernobyl in his kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>He really could get used to this.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They’d heard him.</p><p> </p><p>The 30,000 people watching his stream had heard someone else’s voice after he’d thrown off his headphones to rescue Dream’s poor excuse for a pancake and now his Twitter mentions are drowning in extravagant theories and keyboard smashes.</p><p> </p><p>Fortunately, his voice had not been clear enough for any of their conversation to be coherent, but the fact that they heard someone else in the first place is bad enough as it is - not only does he now have to provide an explanation, but he has to provide one for <em> Dream </em>. Dream, the man who appeared in his apartment one day and then spontaneously returned in a crumpled pile of bruises with no idea as to why or how. Dream, the man who doesn’t really seem to know how to be a functioning human being.</p><p> </p><p>Not only did his audience hear him, but Wilbur did too. George had been quick to leave the Discord call after the stream ended in order to see what progress Dream had made on the cleaning. It came as no surprise when he woke up the next morning to a billion of texts from Wilbur who demanded an explanation for this mysterious new voice in his apartment.</p><p> </p><p>WIlbur was immediately loud when George joined the call that same afternoon.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What the Hell, George!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “The- the guy! Who was the guy in your apartment?!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You know what I’m referring to! Secret boyfriend?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>At this, George physically recoils. “No, no, no,” he says. “I, uhh, found myself a new roommate, actually.”</p><p> </p><p>Radio silence.</p><p> </p><p>“Wi-”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What the fuck? Roommate? Who is this lucky man, George? How long has it been?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Like, a week. And I don’t think he’s staying forever. I’m just… giving him a place to stay while we work out how to get him home again.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s then that Wilbur turns on his webcam. The man looks a little dishevelled from sleep but otherwise extremely energised, clearly thrilled by the introduction of this mystery roommate George recently harboured. <em> “Elaborate,” </em> he says gleefully. <em> “Tell me about him. I bet he’s a hunk. A real looker.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Uhh. His name is Dream. Weird, I know, but whatever works. He says he’s from Florida. He doesn’t know how he got to London, but he’s got people waiting for him at home, so I guess that’s where he’s going soon.” George scratches his head, trying to think of ways to make Dream sound a bit less like the goblin of a human being he is. “He’s… an interesting person. Very friendly. Very accident prone. <em> Very </em>sheltered; he hardly knew how to use a microwave. He turned my kitchen into Chernobyl mid-stream yesterday.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “What do you mean ‘weird’? That’s a sick name.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Out of everything I told you, is that all that stuck? There’s so many other weird things about him that I could tell you that would make him sound like an anecdote I just made up.”</p><p> </p><p><em> “There’s only one way to find out if you’re being honest,” Wilbur</em> says, suggestively wiggling his eyebrows.</p><p> </p><p>He supposes it couldn’t hurt. If George can get along with Dream, then he expects Mr. Charismatic behind the screen would do, too. He takes one ear out of his headphone and calls into the air, “Dream! Come here, would you?”</p><p> </p><p>The American arrives within the minute. “Hello.”</p><p> </p><p>“You remember that guy I told you about? Wilbur?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh huh."</p><p> </p><p>“Come say hi to him.”</p><p> </p><p>Dream’s eyes dart around the room for another sign of life before he seems to notice Wilbur bouncing up and down on the other side of his computer screen. Cautiously, he takes the seat offered to him and allows George to place the headphones over his ears. “You must be Wilbur,” he says, blowing out the microphone.</p><p> </p><p>“Sit away from the mic a bit.”</p><p> </p><p>Dream points at the microphone in front of his face, glances at George for confirmation and obligates. “You must be Wilbur,” he says again.</p><p> </p><p><em> “You must be Dream,” </em>Wilbur replies. <em> “What did you do to Georgie’s kitchen?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Pancakes. I did pancakes.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Aah. You must have used the classic ‘set the pancakes on fire so they cook faster’ trick.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The taller man finally starts to laugh at this. It’s as if this flips a switch inside of him. Over the course of the next few minutes, Dream and Wilbur keep on bantering together, and George watches contently as his strange roommate visibly begins to relax. It was definitely a good idea to introduce the two of them. Dream could do with making a couple more friends if he’s going to be hanging around London for a little longer.</p><p> </p><p>Watching Dream get along with his best friend so well like this makes George realise that everything will feel different when he eventually leaves for Florida. That isn’t something he ever thought he’d admit to himself, but here he is. When Dream first reappeared at his apartment, he’d wanted to get rid of the man as soon as he could and return to his routine with his cat and his career.</p><p> </p><p>But Dream is easy to get along with, considerate and downright hilarious. It isn’t even intentional most of the time; he’s just so funny and likeable by nature, and it becomes clearer and clearer with each passing day. George isn’t sure he’s ever going to find a better roommate.</p><p> </p><p>There are people waiting for him, though. The way Dream spoke about Sapnap told tales about how close they are; about the things that they’ve been through together. There’s no way in the world he can take Dream away from them like this.</p><p> </p><p>Truth be told, he wishes he could do just that.</p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes pass before Wilbur informs Dream that he needs to go edit a video, and that he’d like to talk to George before he leaves. The taller man says an enthusiastic goodbye before he leaps off the chair to finish the TV show he’d recently been enraptured by - the Inbetweeners, of all things.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “George.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“He’s… weird, isn’t he?”</p><p> </p><p><em> “George.” Wilbur</em>’s eyes are bright. <em> “George, I love him. He’s adorable. He’s hilarious. He’s probably the most interesting human being I’ve ever met and I’ve only known him for, like, five minutes. Please, for the love of all things Holy, never, </em> ever <em> let him go.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Believe me, I wish I could.” The Brit sighs, looking defeated. “Wilbur, he’s the perfect roommate. He never complains and he entertains my attention whore of a cat. The only things we could work on is his contribution to rent and his ability to cook without causing a nuclear event. But he’s got a family in Florida. He says they’re waiting for him.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “At least give him a phone so you can stay in contact with him when he’s gone.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And that’s exactly what George does.</p><p> </p><p>The next day sees him and Dream venturing into the local shopping center to make a quick stop at the Apple store. He doesn’t necessarily need an expensive phone, but it would be lying to say that George can’t easily afford it; a stream on a good day rewards him with an absolute killing.</p><p> </p><p>It’s very evident that Dream has never touched a phone in his life by the way that his eyes sparkle as he gazes across the store. The sheer volume of options in front of him sees to strike child-like wonder in his heart. “All of these have different features but are the same size,” he informs George after five minutes of excitedly tapping through various models.</p><p> </p><p>“One of these will get you on the right track,” George tells him. “You might be able to contact your friend.”</p><p> </p><p>Dream has nothing to say to that.</p><p> </p><p>George gravitates towards the iPhone 8. It isn’t by any means the latest, but it’s not like Dream will give a toss either way.</p><p> </p><p>“Here, which colour do you like? It isn’t a big deal what you choose; you can get any colour you want with a phone case.” George points out the selection of colours presented beside the display phone, feeling like a father buying a Christmas present for his son. “And you’re definitely getting a phone case. You’re so accident-prone that this thing will be shattered in five minutes without one.”</p><p> </p><p>“Just the black one,” Dream tells him after a minute. “Are you sure you can pay for it?”</p><p> </p><p>“I can pay for it. It’s no big deal.”</p><p> </p><p>The Floridian looks worried, but he doesn’t say anything else on the matter. George doesn’t think anything of it and instead flags down a member of staff lurking around the showroom in order to make his purchase.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They get McDonalds after that. Dream opens each layer of the Big Mac and observes the slime sticking the components together with creased eyebrows, visibly concerned for his health, and George can’t say he blames him. He’s never been a big fan of fast food but it’s a quick and easy energy booster when you’re in the shopping center.</p><p> </p><p>“So this is<em> fast food</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>George side-eyes him. “Yep. This looks new to you?”</p><p> </p><p>The American appears to put some thought into his response. “No,” he says slowly. “No.. I’ve- I’ve had it before.”</p><p> </p><p>“Right. You’re eating your burger like it’s about to become sentient in your hands.”</p><p> </p><p>Dream gives his Big Mac the stink-eye.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Something about demons that is worth noting down is that they have inherently better hearing than human beings.</p><p> </p><p>It’s common knowledge back home, but Dream only started to actually notice this when he started living in George’s bustling apartment complex. The human doesn’t seem to have any complaints, so it’s fair to assume that only Dream can constantly hear what is going on in pretty much every other surrounding apartment in the building. The people who live two floors down like to have sex very often. The people who live three apartments to their left watch a lot of loud television.</p><p> </p><p>Dream can also hear George through the wall when he’s streaming. And talking to his friends. And doing literally anything else.</p><p> </p><p>It was when Dream overheard George talking about how they need to ‘work on his contribution to rent’ that it finally struck him; this whole time, this human being has been doing nothing but giving and giving and giving, and Dream has hardly even attempted to return the favour. Sure, he tries his best to be pleasant company, but that just isn’t enough. He needs to do something else to let George know how much he appreciates this refuge.</p><p> </p><p>It’s been on his mind all day. The demon finally decides to bring it up as George is busily setting up his brand new phone.</p><p> </p><p>“George.”</p><p> </p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p> </p><p>“George, I think it’s time.”</p><p> </p><p>“Time for… what?”</p><p> </p><p>“I think it’s time I get a job.”</p><p> </p><p>At this, George pauses. He puts the phone down on the sofa and turns his full attention to Dream. “You want to get a job?” he echoes curiously. “It’s not going to take us long to arrange your flight back to Florida, you know. You probably won’t be here long enough to worry about getting a job.”</p><p> </p><p>There’s not many ways he can properly communicate this without giving away his whole ‘I’m actually not a human being!’ situation, but he tries his best nonetheless. “It’s going to take longer than you think,” he says vaguely.</p><p> </p><p>“What-”</p><p> </p><p>“I want to contribute to rent. You’ve helped me so much! It’s only fair that I pay for my half while I’m here.”</p><p> </p><p>Now, Dream doesn’t really understand much about rent, but the concept is easy enough to grasp. People who live in the same household split the money it costs between each other in order to make it fair. Or something like that</p><p> </p><p>George looks deep in thought. It’s extremely hard to read a human's facial expressions when you’re not one; he just can’t identify what he’s thinking about. “You’re an adult. You can do what you want. Just know that you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” He blows out a laugh. “I’m not struggling or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.”</p><p> </p><p>“Such a humble provider,” Dream jokes. “I want to. Really.”</p><p> </p><p>Truth be told, the constant noise happening all around him does get on his nerves. It’s worse at night; he can’t have the TV on in order to let George sleep. Having a job means that Dream will be able to leave the apartment complex every once in a while. They have similar living spaces in a block like this at home, but just as the ones on Earth are modified to the average human’s hearing range, the ones in Hell are adapted for a demon’s.</p><p> </p><p>“In that case,” George says, “I’ll help you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re the kindest human being I’ve ever met.” Dream forgets that humans don’t normally refer to other humans by their species, but if George notices, he doesn’t have anything to say about it.</p><p> </p><p>“Don’t worry about it, Dream. Now let’s finish setting up this thing.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'll be honest - i'm going through a tough time with my mental health. getting this chapter done was a really big struggle.<br/>but seeing all of the comments talking about how much you anticipated a new chapter and appreciated my work made me smile. i powered through my slump to get it done for you.<br/>so thank you for giving me a reason to get my shit together in the morning. i appreciate it more than you know and your positive comments and support means the world to me.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*** !!! TW: SEMI-GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF A WOUND NEAR THE END OF THE CHAPTER !!! ***</p><p>**IMPORTANT: i have made some change to the previous chapters that affect the plot. PLEASE READ BACK BEFORE CONTINUING WITH THE STORY**<br/>**EDITED 27/12/2020**</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>While it is common knowledge that demonkind are physically superior to the average human being, they harbour many unique weaknesses too.</p><p> </p><p>It’s extremely fortunate that the knowledge of genuine demon existence is obscure and often ridiculed, because some human beings happen to have gotten some of it on the dot. As it says in many mortal tales, demons are vulnerable to anything Holy; hallowed ground; Holy water; Holy fire; even just the smoke of burning sage. Demon traps, if correctly drawn, do work. Exorcisms often do, too.</p><p> </p><p>However, humans happen to have gotten some of it wrong, too. It’s untrue that iron burns a demon, and while successful anti-possession sigils exist, humans don’t appear to know what it actually looks like. When they had first discovered the fact that humans believed demons cannot cross lines of salt, he and Sapnap had cracked jokes about it for hours. No one really knows where the humans pulled <em> that </em> one out of.</p><p> </p><p>Despite the various things that can harm a demon, Dream realises soon into his time in London that he doesn’t really have to worry about coming across any of it. Most of the churches he’s come across in London so far don’t have that Holy stench wafting off it like the old stone churches away from the city; they’re not hallowed ground. And who the hell uses sage anymore?</p><p> </p><p>It was only when George started to drag him out of the house more often that Dream remembered something else that can be detrimental to demonkind; the cold.</p><p> </p><p>Demons are creatures built for the heat; designed to thrive surrounded by molten lakes of hellfire that stretch across miles upon miles of hot rock. Their bodies are powered by warmth. It charges them like a battery; energises them; maintains them; keeps them comfortable and happy and healthy. A demon out of warmth might as well be a dead demon.</p><p> </p><p>And, unfortunately for Dream, he just so happened to land in London, England, during the winter months of the year. It's not the coldest place in the world, but there are definitely warmer places that he could have ended up. The first thing he'd noticed upon gaining consciousness inside of his brand new human vessel is that it's not only always uncomfortably, finger-numbingly <em>freezing </em>but it is also persistently <em>damp.</em></p><p> </p><p>Damp isn’t the right word - <em>pouring</em> is perhaps more accurate.</p><p> </p><p>There is no such thing as rain in Hell and, after spending a single day in London, Dream has never been so glad for that. Every droplet that touches his skin feels like it’s supposed to burn him. It seeps through these clothes; through this flimsy skin; through these muscles and bones and right into the deep abyss of demonic energy festering like black mold inside of his human vessel.</p><p> </p><p>A demon in a human vessel can withstand the cold a little easier, but it doesn’t mean it’s any less uncomfortable. George is nice enough to offer Dream a second sweater to wear underneath his hoodie and coat after taking note of his unexplained aversion to going outside while it’s cold and raining. The human doesn’t seem to think anything unusual of it; all he offers is a snide, “Floridians.” Dream feels like he’s definitely heard that line before.</p><p> </p><p>“Where are we going?” Dream asks as George impatiently bustles him out of the door.</p><p> </p><p>“We,” the human replies, “are going to a job interview.”</p><p> </p><p>“We?”</p><p> </p><p>“We.”</p><p> </p><p>Dream pretends to look offended, but in reality, he’s glad George is accompanying him. He’s got no idea how a human job interview is supposed to go. “Okay,” he says passively. “Are we both going to do the interview?”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I’m just making sure you don’t die on your way there. You already know I don’t need a job outside of my apartment.” George leads Dream down several flights of stairs that he vaguely remembers clambering up when he’d first appeared in London.</p><p> </p><p>“Fair enough.”</p><p> </p><p>“I have a friend who owns a coffee shop down the street. Dream, you don’t have… well, according to everything about you, you don’t exist. Calling him was your only option.”</p><p> </p><p>Dream glances down at himself. “I definitely exist,” he reminds George.</p><p> </p><p>“Legally,” George counters, “you don’t. You don’t have any identification on you.”</p><p> </p><p>The demon slumps his shoulders. Humans have such a trivial society.</p><p> </p><p>They reach the outdoors. Dream’s eyes immediately flit to the sky. “There is absolutely no colour,” he observes out loud as he gazes at the clouds; above his head is a sheet of grey, spitting cold, fat droplets of rain that pelt against his waterproof. “And it’s so cold. How are you not cold?”</p><p> </p><p>George, clad in just a t-shirt and coat with no extra sweater underneath, informs him, “I’m just used to it. Come on, it’s only ten minutes.”</p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes of walking later sees the pair stopping outside of a pleasant-looking coffee shop nestled in between a couple of stores on a somewhat busy highstreet. Underneath the canopy are tables with chairs folded atop them; hanging baskets without any plants inside swing in the breeze on either side of the door. There are cigarettes stamped into the pavement outside and dots where people have butted them out scarring the brick wall.</p><p> </p><p>George opens the door and the warmth hits Dream like a truck. It’s as if he has been washed over with a refreshing wave of energy; it seeps through his meatsuit and charges him up from the inside out. “That,” he sighs contently, “is so much better.”</p><p> </p><p>“Definitely built for the heat, huh,” George jokes.</p><p> </p><p>“I need it to live,” Dream responds seriously.</p><p> </p><p>“Classic Floridian.”</p><p> </p><p>The coffee shop is pleasant. It has eggshell blue walls with paintings of flowers here and there on the walls. The tables are a deep mahogany like the floor but the chairs don’t match; Dream assumes they had been purchased secondhand by the look of their wear and tear. As a centerpiece on each table there are flowers in jars that are looking a little dry.</p><p> </p><p>It looks like whoever is working here is still setting up; there is nothing in the glass casings that is definitely supposed to present food and the space behind the counter is scattered with open machines and half-filled plastic containers.</p><p> </p><p>Although it’s a little worn down, it’s certainly clean and warm. It doesn’t feel strange and new even to a demon looking for a way back to Hell. There is a feeling of homeliness and comfort in his chest; not quite familiar, but not unwelcome.</p><p> </p><p>Dream picks up on footsteps approaching them from the windowless door behind the counter. “You’re here,” a warm, deep voice says as the door opens.</p><p> </p><p>“Hi, Eret.” George is smiling.</p><p> </p><p>Whoever this man is, he’s certainly tall; definitely taller than any human being he’s ever come across before. When he eventually bustles around the counter to greet George he observes that his height can be explained by his extremely large shoes. Platforms. Or something like that.</p><p> </p><p>“You must be Dream,” Eret says, extending a hand towards him.</p><p> </p><p>Dream doesn’t understand what he’s supposed to do with it.</p><p> </p><p>“He’s from Florida,” George says, as if it explains everything.</p><p> </p><p>“Right,” Eret laughs. He takes his hand away and turns his full attention to Dream, who regards him carefully, a little bewildered about talking to another human being who isn’t George unexpectedly. “George told me you needed a job. George <em> also </em>told me you’re an expert at mastering kitchen appliances. If you can master a coffee maker, you have a job right here.”</p><p> </p><p>The demon stares at Eret, processing the information. If all he needs to do is work out how to use whatever a coffee maker is, he’s sure he has this in the bag. “George said I don’t exist though,” he informs Eret. “Is that okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“As long as I pay you in cash, sure.”</p><p> </p><p>Dream isn’t sure how else he’d be given money, but he shrugs and goes along with it anyway.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dream is, in fact, an expert at mastering kitchen appliances. Apparently, he is also an expert at mastering complicated liquid recipes; he learns how to make every single kind of drink on the menu before the week is over.</p><p> </p><p>This process was of course not without any mishaps. Eret seemed quite bewildered when he walked out of the kitchen to discover Dream had been serving tea to customers with the tea leaves loose in the bottom of the cup rather than in the teabag where they belong. And, after Eret broke down the concept of lactose intolerance to Dream, he quickly realised he's probably ruined several people's days by adding whatever milk 'felt right in the moment' to each drink rather than their specific order. He assumed it was a harmless game.</p><p> </p><p>Despite everything, Dream is enjoying life as a human coffee shop employee. The change of scenery is pleasant; although London is still uncomfortable to his sensitive demon ears, paying attention to what he’s putting into the drinks helps him take his mind away from it. </p><p> </p><p>Not only that, but learning how to make drinks and such with Eret’s help means he can surprise George with something new everyday. He’s finally getting the hang of the human diet - he sort of understands what is supposed to be prepared and how - and he has an understanding of George’s preferences.</p><p> </p><p>It’s safe to say that learning how to be a person has become quite entertaining.</p><p> </p><p>The only thing he’s been struggling with, however, is the whole customer service part.</p><p> </p><p>As a demon, Dream struggles to pick up on what he’s supposed to say when. He prefers it when customers just tell him their order and thank him on their way out; when they start to make conversation, there’s this huge pressure to act properly on his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>One difference between people and demons that Dream has noticed now that he’s been conversing with human beings other than George is that they definitely have a larger spectrum of emotional depth than he does. In Hell, you’d be hard-pressed to come across a demon that gives a shit about you if they don’t know you personally, but that actually seems to be a societal expectation between human beings. It took Dream several minutes to figure out he’s supposed to pretend he cares when a customer tells him about something bad that happened to them.</p><p> </p><p>Nonetheless, Dream is happy with himself, and barges back into George’s apartment with a pep in his step after his last shift of the week is over. “I have returned!” he shouts.</p><p> </p><p>“Feed the cat!” George responds from his bedroom.</p><p> </p><p>By the sounds of it, his human friend is streaming on his computer, so Dream busies himself with the task of feeding Patches his dinner, preparing a quick snack for George as he has every night since he’s gotten back from his shift at the coffee shop and starting the shower to keep his meatsuit clean.</p><p> </p><p>It’s as he absent-mindedly steps under the stream of steaming water that he feels it; white, hot pain erupting from his back.</p><p> </p><p>His vision tunnels and, out of sheer shock, he collapses away from the water onto the cold, wet tile floors. Bottles of shower cream and shampoo are sent clattering to the ground with an almighty crash as his foot strikes them on his way down. His head connects with the edge of the sink; he thinks that if he were human, that might’ve done some damage.</p><p> </p><p>Back stinging and chest heaving, Dream props himself onto his elbows. Humans are so flimsy; he doesn’t like how vulnerable he is while he’s wearing one of them. He doesn’t remember ever feeling that amount of pain from the shower. It’s not as if the temperature of the water could ever be hot enough to so much as make him twitch.</p><p> </p><p>From across the apartment he can hear George tell his audience to ‘hold on’. Footsteps approach the door. “Dream?” says the human, cautiously knocking on the door, thankfully locked. “Dream, I heard a crash or- or something. Are you okay in there?”</p><p> </p><p>Dream clambers off the ground. “I knocked a bunch of stuff over,” he replies, gritting his teeth as he tries to prop himself up. It’s not as if he’s <em> lying. </em></p><p> </p><p>“Idiot,” George comments.</p><p> </p><p>The demon laughs shortly. He waits until he hears George return his computer before he moves again, extremely aware of all of the noise he is making so as to not alert his human companion. The last thing he wants is to give him something else to worry about.</p><p> </p><p>Unsure of whether or not this is a human body problem, Dream tentatively reaches over his shoulder to touch his back. It’s when the tips of his fingers brush against the skin that he feels it again; hot, unbearable pain that rips through his entire body and strikes him all the way down to the soul.</p><p> </p><p>This isn’t anything he’s felt before. Not while he’s in a human vessel. His breath comes out into the humid bathroom hard and fast as he holds himself up on the sink, recovering from the toll that it had taken out of his body. No human injury could reach all the way through to his soul like that. Surely not.</p><p> </p><p>His hands are shaking as he wipes away the condensation on the mirror. Almost too afraid to look, he stands with his back to the mirror, and strains his head to peer over his shoulder.</p><p> </p><p>“Oh. Oh, fuck.”</p><p> </p><p>His unbeating heart drops to his feet.</p><p> </p><p>Mere centermeters below the space between his shoulderblades, his skin is... it's tearing apart. That's the only way Dream could describe what he's looking at. A particular wound - perhaps four inches long - sticks out as it stretches across muscle and bone. surrounded by shredded skin that is marred red and black and bubbling as if it had been singed. It's disgusting; it's makes him feel nauseated; but he just cannot look away. His eyes remained glued to the mirror as if he were locked in a trance. Blame the shock.</p><p> </p><p>(If one were to look closer, they may be able to see Dream’s entity pulsing inside of the vessel. A demon in it’s unfiltered form is not visible to the human eye; they are nothing but a shadow; a singularity; dark, raw energy.)</p><p> </p><p>It isn't blood that leaks from this wound. No, it's something far worse, something that makes him feel lightheaded the moment it clicks. Dapples of black flecks splash the skin across his back here and there, heavier the closer it is to the wound. Upon further observation, he spies it beginning to creep towards his ribcage and upper arms, too. This is physical evidence of the toll his presence is leaving on this body. These marks are the disease he's leaving behind; the gradual process of destroying a vessel from the inside out. The human being he's wearing has a body weaker than he expected it to.</p><p> </p><p>It makes Dream feel ill to the stomach. Not from the pain nor from the unsightly mess on his back, but because this is the beginning to a sickening, twisted process.</p><p> </p><p>This vessel is running out of time.</p><p> </p><p>Some human beings are not equipped to withstand the intense stress a demon leaves on their soul and flesh. Others, however, could probably go a few years with a demon controlling the meatsuit before they start to suffer the consequences. No matter how strong the vessel was when they were alive, human bodies who were dead upon possession just don’t last that long.</p><p> </p><p>It’s not up to him what body he inhabits when he first enters the Earth; his form is launched into the closest creature that can handle the atmosphere and pressures of the human environment, whether it’s an insect on the ground or, in his case, a dead man in a damp London alleyway. However, he <em> can </em>easily make the choice to leave it for another one whenever he chooses.</p><p> </p><p>This vessel is crumbling under the strain of his overwhelming energy. Now that he’s aware of it, it’s hit him like a truck; the energy leaking from his body; the numbness of his mind and soul. He has time - the wound isn't big right now - but it's slipping through his fingers quickly. It won’t be long until this body will be too far gone and he will be forced to find something else. And it <em>definitely</em> won't be long before his newfound human companion begins to realise something is up.</p><p> </p><p>Dread grips him.</p><p> </p><p>He throws himself against the toilet and wretches his stomach contents into the bowl.</p><p> </p><p>If he doesn’t get home soon, he’s going to have to make some difficult choices.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>short and spicy! i've finally kicked the plotline forward. ;]</p><p>all of your support has been absolutely phenomenal.<br/>thank you all for being so patient with me; i love and appreciate every one of you.<br/>i hope to be back to regularly updating soon.</p><p>i really appreciate comments&lt;3 &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>** TW: PANIC ATTACK, DEATH **</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It starts like this.</p><p> </p><p>Dream is drying clean dishes in the kitchen at the coffee shop when it happens; hot, white pain pulses from his back and welts him right down to the deep, dark innards his entity resides in. All at once his vision tunnels and he feels himself stumble into the sink behind him. The water cup in his hands shatters into an ocean of glass across his feet as soon as it meets the floor.</p><p> </p><p>Footsteps approach him. Eret is all of a sudden holding Dream by the shoulder, thick eyebrows knitted together with concern. “What happened? Are you okay?” he questions.</p><p> </p><p>Everything is still a little hazy but Dream can blink the black blotches away from his vision. Pain continues to pulse through his body, but this time it sits at a constant, mind-numbing level of manageable throbbing. The skin on his back continues to tear as his entity exhales.</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t so bad yet. </p><p> </p><p>He has time.</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he lies, “I’m okay. I… I, uh, just dropped it and it startled me. That’s all.”</p><p> </p><p>The human doesn’t look at all convinced. “You looked really out of it for a second,” he tells him.</p><p> </p><p>“I just didn’t get a lot of sleep.” Technically not a lie; Dream doesn’t <em> need </em>to sleep.</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” Eret appears to take this as an acceptable excuse, but he continues to watch Dream carefully, as if he’s afraid he’s going to crumble at any second.</p><p> </p><p>“I’m really sorry about your glass.”</p><p> </p><p>“Dream, the last thing I care about right now is a stupid glass. I’ll clean this up. Just… please, take a break now. Let me make you something hot to drink and a good bit of food. If you still feel worse for wear after that, you’re free to go back to your apartment to replenish.”</p><p> </p><p><em> His </em>apartment.</p><p> </p><p>Oh, right. He pays rent now. That means it’s his apartment too, right?</p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes sees him sitting at an empty table, watching the rain gently patter against the windows. Nothing other than a vast blanket of grey stretches across the sky. Steaming tea and a freshly baked croissant lay untouched on the table in front of him. Eret’s kindness is endless, but he can’t so much as pick it up. What with the whole ‘vessel trying to eject his entity’ shenanigan, he can’t quite bring himself to try and enjoy human food anymore.</p><p> </p><p>The demon can’t help but ponder about how awfully everything has managed to time itself. It’s just his luck that the moment he starts to actually<em> like </em>his accidental-vacation-turned-thrilling-acting-challenge that his crumbling vessel is forcing him to put a cap on it.</p><p> </p><p>In reality, this is <em> his </em>fault. There’s no one else he can blame. If he were any more quick-thinking, he’d have searched for a stronger vessel the moment he got launched into this one. Everybody with half a brain knows that a dead body lying in a London alleyway probably isn’t the smartest choice for a meatsuit. He should’ve left it to rot where he’d found it.</p><p> </p><p>It’s twisted, but that’s just the way things are.</p><p> </p><p>Maybe he should look at this as a good thing. If this hadn’t have happened, he might’ve been tempted to stay even longer. Human life is so interesting and exciting, he could have gone weeks without realising how much time is passing. This is just serving as a reminder to stay focused on the goal he’s been working for ever since he stumbled through that portal; getting back home. Seeing his best friend again.</p><p> </p><p>“Feeling better?” comes Eret’s voice, pulling him out of his mind.</p><p> </p><p>The demon’s back still hurts, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. An uncomfortable ache strains at his head and eyes whenever he looks at the lights and out of the window. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. I can get back to work.”</p><p> </p><p>Eret watches Dream’s face for but a moment before he’s inviting himself to the seat opposite him. “I’m not stupid,” he informs him seriously. “I can tell you’re not feeling good. Come on, Dream. Go home.”</p><p> </p><p>“I promise I- I’m fine-”</p><p> </p><p>“Dream.”</p><p> </p><p>“But-”</p><p> </p><p>“Go.” </p><p> </p><p>His word is final.</p><p> </p><p>They stare at each other for another couple seconds before Dream gives in. To be honest, the idea of stepping back into that kitchen and washing dishes for another couple of hours underneath those painfully white lights sounds like the opposite of what he wants to do right now. For the first time since Dream started to exist all of those centuries ago, he is experiencing <em> sleepiness. </em></p><p> </p><p>As he’s leaving, Eret passes him another hot tea. It feels comforting in his hands. “To keep you going on the walk back,” he tells Dream earnestly. “Stay safe, okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Thank you, Eret.”</p><p> </p><p>His back throbs again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Every single day that Dream has been working at the coffee shop, he’s come back to the apartment with a pep in his step, producing an upbeat stream of  chatter about every reasonably exciting occurrence he’d experienced in the day. Which is, as George has bemusedly observed over time, just about everything - this <em> is </em> Dream we’re talking about, after all.</p><p> </p><p>However, when Dream comes back today, it’s two hours early and he doesn’t talk about… well, he doesn’t talk about much at all, actually. Not <em> nearly </em> as much as he usually does. Instead he briefly recounts a single interaction he had with a customer before disappearing into the bathroom and locking the door behind him.</p><p> </p><p>It’s very much unlike Dream, but everybody has their bad days, right?</p><p> </p><p>“How was your day?” George tries again, suspiscious, as soon as he spies Dream lingering in the kitchen.</p><p> </p><p>“I already told you,” is what Dream replies with.</p><p> </p><p>“Nothing else?”</p><p> </p><p>Dream shrugs. “It was really empty today. I spent the whole day washing glasses. I actually dropped one.” He laughs shortly and George realises then that something <em>definitely </em>isn't right. “Eret wasn’t impressed about <em> that </em>one.”</p><p> </p><p>In the overhead lighting of the kitchen, George finally gets a better look at him. There are dark marks marring the skin under his eyes, which squint as if irritated by the bright lights. Although Dream has a natural tan, he looks just that little bit more pale than usual, though George isn't sure whether it's because he's a Floridian man living under the overall lack of sun during English winters or whether he's actually sick.</p><p> </p><p>“Right.” George watches Dream linger awkwardly. “You’re sure you’re okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah! Yeah, I’m okay.”</p><p> </p><p>The Brit isn’t convinced, but he decided to leave it alone for now. Dream may be the goofiest, most puppylike person he’s ever come across in his life, but this doesn’t mean he’s excluded from having bad days. Chances are, he’ll be his boisterous self after a hot meal and a good night’s sleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Have you eaten today?”</p><p> </p><p>Dream looks up at George from where he’d been sitting on the couch watching television. Although it’s late afternoon, the human has just woken up, and it definitely shows; his hair is tousled atop his head and there are dark circles under his eyes where he’s still half-conscious. Playfully, Dream makes a face. "You need a shower," he observes. "You look like someone dragged you through a hedge." That’s something people say to each other, right?</p><p> </p><p>“Har-dee-har.” George groggily pads into the kitchen. “Did you eat today, though?”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah,” he lies.</p><p> </p><p>There’s a long stretch of silence between them as George clutters about the kitchen, starting the kettle and pulling the milk out of the fridge. Dream absently listens to him grumble about how cold the apartment is before he turns his attention back to the television.</p><p> </p><p>Before long, a plate of peanut butter toast appears on his lap. “I don’t believe you,” George says, collapsing into the couch beside him with his own toast and a mug of steaming tea. “Eat. Now. Pronto.”</p><p> </p><p>“What? Why?”</p><p> </p><p>“It doesn’t smell like burnt.”</p><p> </p><p>“Maybe I just… didn’t burn my food.”</p><p> </p><p>George gives him the stink-eye for that one. Fair enough - Dream is good at burning food.</p><p> </p><p>Basking in a comfortable quiet, they watch the television together. This is Dream's favourite part about spending time with George; they can exist in a mutual space without needed to interact at all. It's a welcome break from Sapnap, who is extremely clingy and insists that they're always touching whenever they're together - not that Dream minds all that much.</p><p> </p><p>His back is throbbing.</p><p> </p><p>Dream doesn’t feel like eating the toast but he empties the plate nonetheless. He’d invented an appetite in order to coexist with human beings - it would be suspicious if it suddenly disappeared again.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t understand why we can’t just buy you a ticket back to Florida,” George says, completely unprovoked.</p><p> </p><p>The demon’s stomach drops to his feet.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s,” he swallows, panic rising in his throat, “it’s complicated.”</p><p> </p><p>“How complicated could it be?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uh.”</p><p> </p><p>The human switches off the television; the air becomes too silent and Dream is suddenly extremely self-aware of his own body language. He's staring hard at the black screen, deep in thought. "I just don't get it, Dream," he continues. "We can't just keep living like this. You haven't told me why you ever appeared here. You're so convinced that it's an impossible task to get home again." He turns to look Dream in the eyes. The human's facial expression is that of stone. "You're a good friend to me, Dream, but living in the same apartment with an enigma is<em> scaring</em> me."</p><p> </p><p>There’s this unfamiliar fear settling in his chest and in the back of Dream’s throat. Anxiety twists his stomach into knots. This is not a welcome confrontation, but it’s definitely expected. It was going to happen sooner or later.</p><p> </p><p>“You just appeared in my apartment one day,” George starts again, voice gradually rising in a crescendo, “and- and now you have a job! And you pay rent! And you have your own toothbrush and you have television programmes recorded on my TV! And- and I’m…"</p><p> </p><p>Dream can hardly hear George over his own breathing.</p><p> </p><p>"I’m perfectly <em>okay</em> with it.” He doesn’t look at Dream, but his eyes are hard. “That’s the worst part."</p><p> </p><p>The silence that follows deafens him.</p><p> </p><p>“I think, after everything I've done for you, you owe me an explanation, Dream. Can't you just be honest with me for once?"</p><p> </p><p>George is staring at his hands.</p><p> </p><p>Hands that, by now, have been overtaken with the sick, twisted disease his entity leaves on the vessel. Dream hadn’t even noticed.</p><p> </p><p>“Dream?”</p><p> </p><p>His mind races and yet none of his thoughts are coherent. There’s no way he can get out of this without losing everything he’s worked so hard to keep. George is going to find out the truth about his very existence and he’s going to be terrified and angry and he’s going to try and kill him and the thought of losing his friend and getting hunted down because of what he really <em>is</em> crushes him-- it’s <em> crushing and crushing and crushing </em> and everything is <em> too fast </em> and <em> too close </em> and--</p><p> </p><p>--he does the only thing he can do.</p><p> </p><p>He runs.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Dream doesn’t even remember leaving the apartment or going down the stairs. All he knows is that as the wind and rain pummels his skin and soaks him down to the soul, everything hits him like a fucking freight train.</p><p> </p><p>In one crucial swoop, everything he’s tried so hard to keep since he tumbled through that portal has been destroyed. He needed somewhere safe from the dangers of an unfamiliar existence while he worked to get home on his own. He needed human allyship where his validification as a real person was hardly even questioned to teach him how to coexist with a species he’s only ever observed from the outside.</p><p> </p><p>And, just like that, it’s all gone.</p><p> </p><p>George wasn’t just a mere ‘human allyship’ that he was using for his own gain, though. No - he was much more than that. He was a aimable, genuine person who offered Dream a place to stay out of the kindness of his heart; he was someone who he laughed with; someone he felt safe with; someone within which he discovered a connection. </p><p> </p><p>Dare he say it, but he thinks that within the period of time they spent living together, he could call George his friend. It would be lying to claim that he isn’t <em> destroyed </em> about losing that.</p><p> </p><p>The wind whips at his hair. Dream isn’t wearing anything remotely weather appropriate - just sweatpants, a hoodie and socks, because George runs the apartment comfortably warm - and it isn’t long before he starts to feel it.</p><p> </p><p>He doesn’t know how long he was running for, nor does he know where he went. Every street looks equally as dizzying as the last. Nothing looks in the slightest bit familiar and he can’t even identify which direction he came from and which direction he was going in anymore. When he looks up, the sheer height of the buildings blotting out the blinding grey of the clouds above him makes him feel nauseous.</p><p> </p><p>People continue to knock into his shoulders as they bustle past him, uncaring for the disorientated and shivering man lost in the middle of the street without his shoes on. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe humans aren’t much different to demonkind after all.</p><p> </p><p>Regret stings worse than the open wounds on his back; than the disease of his own being spreading across his skin. This wouldn’t have happened if he’d just been honest with George from the beginning; if he expressed immediate hostility, Dream could have simply made his leave. It isn’t like it’s hard to cycle through humans until he comes across someone who maybe didn’t mind as much as others might.</p><p> </p><p>This is what he gets for making a <em> connection </em> with a fucking <em> human being. </em></p><p> </p><p>The human race is a joke in Hell. They’re ridiculed for their stupid societal rules and weak, flimsy existences. They spend their short lifespans doing jobs they hate for people they hate just to afford to kick back in a different country for two weeks of the year. They control and gatekeep people under the guise of societal rules that don’t even exist; that they invented on their own. They destroy the Earth that is offering them <em> life. </em>It’s sickening.</p><p> </p><p>But Dream understands.</p><p> </p><p>It all makes sense to him now.</p><p> </p><p>“Get the fuck out of the way,” somebody snaps, second before his skull connects with the concrete. His breath comes out in short, hot gasps as he lays where he fell. It steams up the cracked lenses on his glasses, which he decidedly rips off his face and throws across the ground. He’s supposed to feel angry, but he doesn’t.</p><p> </p><p>Everything feels so distant. </p><p> </p><p>He’s so, so <em> cold. </em></p><p> </p><p>White-hot pain pulses from his back, then, and with it comes a wave of determination. It takes a couple seconds of stumbling, but with gritted teeth he’s wobbling on his feet again, chest heaving as he recovers from the toll the fall took on him. Normally it wouldn’t phase him, but dealing with the combination of his entity being rejected from its vessel and the mind-numbing cold doesn’t do wonders for a demon’s strength.</p><p> </p><p>Dream takes no notice of the people staring at him as he stands, panting, in the middle of the street. Not one of them even dares to approach him or offer him assistance. Dream doesn’t blame them.</p><p> </p><p>The demon needs to find somewhere<em> warm</em>. Somewhere <em> safe</em>.</p><p> </p><p>He’s just<em> so, so </em>tired.</p><p> </p><p>It’s cold.</p><p> </p><p>He walks. He walks and walks and walks with no direction or destination until his feet give out from underneath him. The alleyway he ends up collapsing in is crammed between two grey apartment complexes that tower over him, with bags of old trash split open across the concrete. The large containers supposed to hold the aforementioned bags offer some kind of protection from the wind and rain and the watchful eyes of the human beings who stroll past.</p><p> </p><p>The cold has by now soaked through his skin and to his very entity. Everything is spinning; keeping his eyes open is exhausting. Even the constant drone of London’s hustle and bustle that has plagued him since he woke up here is starting to sound dim and distant.</p><p> </p><p>Dream is going to die here.</p><p> </p><p>Dream is going to die and he’ll never see his home again.</p><p> </p><p>He’ll never see his best friend again.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sapnap is holding him by the shoulders, pushing his own bodyweight against him so that Dream’s back is inches away from skimming against the swirling portal that bathes their bodies in a pool of otherworldly purple. It’s so close that he can feel it’s inviting heat on his skin, but he knows he won’t fall in - Sapnap wouldn’t let that happen for a million years. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Dream,” he says, suddenly serious. “Do you trust me?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> For but a moment, Dream says nothing. His companion’s eyes glisten mischievously but Dream knows that there’s no one he could trust more. “I trust you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Are you sure?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Only one hand supports his weight now. The portal whispers in his ears.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I,” Dream begins, smiling wide, “have never trusted anyone more than I have trusted you.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Sapnap grins. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> And then he’s falling. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But Dream doesn’t panic; he knows he doesn’t need to, for Sapnap immediately catches him by the torso, laughing and smiling and panting as he pulls his best friend and brother into a soul-crushing hug. It radiates warmth; safety; companionship. “I’d never let you fall,” Sapnap whispers. “You know I’d never let you fall.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Sapnap.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Mhm?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’d let you fall.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Their bodies start shaking as they laugh together. “I shouldn’t have caught you,” Sapnap cackles, but he’s still clinging onto Dream as if he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he lets him go. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Maybe you shouldn’t have.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Half a minute passes. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Can you let me go now, though?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> “If I let you go, you’re going to do something stupid and </em> actually <em> fall in,” Sapnap whines. Nevertheless, he obliges, reluctantly unhooking himself from his best friend. Dream knows that he would rather cling on forever; it would be lying to say that he would mind all that much. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dream steps back towards the portal and wobbles on his heels, dramatically flailing his arms as if he was, in fact, falling through. “Oooh, look at me, I’m going to fall! Whatever will I do!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> As soon as he turns around, Sapnap folds, his entire body convulsing as he’s laughing - laughing just that little bit too hard to notice Dream tip back past the point of no return while trying to regain his footing on the hard, uneven surface of their homeland. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> By the time he looks up, he’s already falling. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Dream watches his best friend screaming his name, again and again and again as he goes. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Dream!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Dream!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Dream!”</p><p> </p><p>Something snaps his head to the left and Dream is barely jolted awake. Though the world around him is spinning on its axis, he thinks he can make out the figure of somebody else crouching in front of his line of view. They’re moving around; they’re trying to move him. They're probably trying to speak to him, but he doesn't know what they're saying. He can't hear them.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> (The dark, twisted entity inside of the dying vessel screams. It needs somewhere else to go. It’s going to die.) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Somebody is patting his cheek, trying to keep him alert, and Dream honestly tries to stay awake just for them; just to help them feel like they’re getting somewhere. It’s the least he can do. He already knows he’s not got long left.</p><p> </p><p>There’s hands shaking his shoulders.</p><p> </p><p>“Dream!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Dream!” Sapnap screams. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, he stops holding on.</p><p> </p><p>He lets go.</p><p> </p><p>For the first time since Dream ever came into existence, he dies.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>wouldn't it be funny if i just ended it here<br/>comments are really appreciated!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>** TW: DEATH **</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Growing up, Dream was told stories of a realm by the name of The End.</p><p> </p><p>It exists between the land of the living and that of the dead. Every creature who loses their life - no matter if they were human, demon or otherwise - is sent to The End as they die. It is the last thing they see before their souls turn to dust.</p><p> </p><p>Some theorise that it is nothing but a vast, empty ocean of void with no beginning and no end; others think that it is a land populated by mysterious End creatures so elusive and powerful that merely looking into their eyes would rip the very essence of their being from your bodies and you would wither away before you could so much as blink.</p><p> </p><p>Folklore says that killing the King of The End will gift you not only immortality, but also infinite power and riches; more than one could ever comprehend. This all sounds like anybody’s dream - except, no one has ever seen this King with their own two eyes and lived to tell the tale. They say that your head would be ripped from your shoulders before you could so much as catch a glance.</p><p> </p><p>Young demons would listen, wide-eyed, as the elders told thrilling tales of those who were brave enough to attempt to cross to the End. They were never supposed to inspire adventure; they were a <em> warning, </em>for those who got too close to the portal were only found again once they were dead.</p><p> </p><p>Dream, always the skeptic, had never believed the End<em> really </em> existed. It was nothing more than folklore relayed to the demon youngsters in order to spook them; just a scary story to convince them that there’s monsters in the dark.</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <em> “You’re not scared of the End creatures?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Dream’s tail whips behind him. He grabs his best friend by the shoulders, staring right into his eyes. “You don’t </em> have <em> to be scared of them. There’s no way you’ll ever see them, Sapnap, because you’ll be dead and they don’t exist.” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “And you know this how, Dream? You’ve never died before,” Sapnap points out. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “I’m being serious,” he claims, but his face shines with a mischievous grin. “Who do those dumb End things even think they are? Do they really think they’re so elite that they can’t even handle anybody looking at them without killing them?” The demon opens his arms dramatically.  “Where do they get that kind of audacity?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This makes Sapnap laugh; a bright, clear sound. “Or maybe they’re just really, really ugly.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “You can relate, huh?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Sapnap delivers a sharp smack to the back of his head. “I hope the End creatures make your death </em> especially <em> painful.” </em></p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>As he floats aimlessly through an infinite sea of nothingness, Dream wishes that he could tell his best friend that there really are no End creatures to be frightened of. That, after everything that was fed to them as clueless baby demons, there’s nothing to be afraid of after all.</p><p> </p><p>Where he is now, drifting through the void, he feels…</p><p> </p><p>… nothing.</p><p> </p><p>Nothing at all.</p><p> </p><p>He continues to feel nothing, in fact, until his head is snapped to the right and suddenly the void looks very much like George’s bedroom ceiling.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Holy fuck,” George breathes.</p><p> </p><p>It <em> worked. </em></p><p> </p><p>Dream had started mumbling where he lay and George had spontaneously smacked him around the face with as much force as he could muster and it <em> worked! </em></p><p> </p><p>The first thing George had registered when Dream had bolted earlier was anger. Hot anger that swelled inside of him until he screamed and threw the couch pillow across the living room. Dream, after everything he’d done for him, had the nerve - the <em> audacity </em> - to just get up and run away from this just because he didn’t want to deal with it.</p><p> </p><p>Then, once his arms were fatigued and his chest was heaving, he felt worried. So worried, in fact, that he was launching himself out of the apartment complex in his sweatpants and Crocs within the minute. The weather was shitty, even under George’s standards; with horizontal rain and ice-cold wind sweeping his skin, he knew that Dream of all people would despise being out here for too long.</p><p> </p><p>For the first time, the Find My iPhone feature had been useful. It took him all the way to a rat-infested alleyway nestled between two towering apartment complexes, littered with ripped trash bags and brown lakes of rainwater running off the walls. The smell was too strong and fucking <em> wretched. </em></p><p> </p><p>George’s breath had gotten stuck in his throat when he’d seen him. Curled up in the cold, Dream’s skin had been so grey and sickly that George was terrified he was dead already. The rain had drenched his clothes and soaked him down into the skin and there was a bloody mark on his forehead as if his skull had collided with the concrete under their feet.</p><p> </p><p>It had taken a sharp slap to the face to stir him, but there wasn’t really a point of doing that in the first place; the man was barely conscious and aware of his surroundings. It looked as if he’d been drugged what with how spaced out he was.</p><p> </p><p>Nevertheless, Dream had at least understood that somebody was there with him. That much was clear.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> (He knows he isn’t dying alone, George’s subconscious had whispered.) </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Heart in his mouth, he had tried everything he could to keep the man awake, but to no avail. It was clear he was fading fast. The realisation that Dream was probably not going to get through whatever the fuck was killing him made him feel sick to his stomach. Calling an ambulance didn’t even occur to him at that point. It felt <em> futile. </em></p><p> </p><p>Watching Dream die has probably been the worst moment of his life, actually.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>(He’d cried and cried and cried.)</em>
</p><p> </p><p>But, in that very moment, something extraordinary had happened.</p><p> </p><p>Although his eyesight was rheumy from the sobbing, he noticed Dream’s corpse jerk and something dark abruptly collided with the wall behind them. It had appeared so unexpectedly, George barely had time to make out what it even was before it propelled itself back into the body; but as Dream sucked in a long, hard breath at his feet, he realised he didn’t even give a fuck.</p><p> </p><p>George didn’t know if what he’d seen was even real and he still doesn’t, he realises, as he watches Dream’s chest rise and fall where he lies peacefully on his bed. In fact, he doesn’t know why or how any of this happened in the first place. He doesn’t care right now. All he knows is that Dream is <em> alive. </em></p><p> </p><p>He releases a breath he didn’t even know he was holding.</p><p> </p><p>Twenty minutes passes. The man that had been quite literally dead not more than two hours ago sits up in bed, stretches and yawns as if waking up from a lovely afternoon nap. His hair and clothes are still filthy and he still looks sickly from when he’d been a lifeless corpse in an alleyway, but he definitely looks much more <em> alive </em> than he did.</p><p> </p><p>Chewing his tongue, Dream squints blearily out of the window. Lucid, conscious Dream is a refreshing sight compared to what he saw lying in that alleyway. Nevertheless, there’s no sign that he recognises George standing at the foot of the bed; it’s as if he doesn’t even notice he’s there in the first place.</p><p> </p><p>“Dream?” George tries.</p><p> </p><p>The man doesn’t respond. Instead, he pats his own head, as if making sure it was, in fact, still on his shoulders. “Do… do I still look the same?” he asks finally.</p><p> </p><p>George blinks. </p><p> </p><p>“What?”</p><p> </p><p>“You know what,” Dream continues tiredly, “don’t answer that.”</p><p> </p><p>The silence they fall into is tense. Dropping into his swivel chair at his desk, George puts his head in his hands. The weight of today’s events have hit him like a fucking freight train and, quite honestly, he thinks he might be traumatised. For fuck’s sake, he watched somebody <em> die </em> in front of his <em> eyes. </em> And now that somebody is waking up in his bed as if he had a fucking <em> sleepover! </em></p><p> </p><p>There is nothing he wants to do more than go to sleep and rest his aching brain before he has to deal with any more slaps in the face today. He’s sure he’ll get over it eventually, but he thinks that the image of Dream’s corpse lying in the dirt at his feet will remain imprinted on his brain for the rest of his life.</p><p> </p><p>Before he realises how long he’s been sitting like this, a hand appears on his shoulder. Concern is knitting Dream’s eyebrows together. “Are you okay?”</p><p> </p><p>“I...”</p><p> </p><p>Inhale.</p><p> </p><p>Exhale.</p><p> </p><p>“What the<em> fuck </em>is wrong with you, Dream?”</p><p> </p><p>Dream drops back, staggered by the outburst.</p><p> </p><p>“You <em> died, </em> Dream. You fucking- you died in front of me! I watched you die!” George grabs at his hair; he’s quickly overwhelmed by the fervent emotions running rampant inside of him. “I watched you die and now you’re- you’re just here and you’re alive and you’re asking if <em> I’m </em> okay? Are you <em> fucking </em> with me? Are you for <em> real?” </em></p><p> </p><p>“George-”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re fucking terrifying, Dream,” George tells him without a second thought. “You’re so fucking terrifying. You’re an enigma. You need help, Dream.<em> Real </em> help. There’s something fucking <em> wrong </em> with you!” He’s scratching feverishly at his arms. “Get up. I’m taking you to a hospital. God, I should’ve done it when I’d found you.”</p><p> </p><p>“George, just <em> listen </em> to me-”</p><p> </p><p>“Look at your hands, for fuck’s sake!”</p><p> </p><p>And he does.</p><p> </p><p>It isn’t anything George has ever seen before. Not even in the movies or comic books. The only thing he could possibly compare to it was black mold, but at the same time it simply isn’t comparable at all. Something about those black flecks that mar his skin feels <em> alive </em> and <em> twisted. </em>It makes George feel sick to his stomach just looking at it.</p><p> </p><p>Dream, however, doesn’t seem to be phased by the sight of it at all. The man looks back at George, wringing his fingers together anxiously. “I can explain everything to you,” he says carefully. “I can tell you the honest truth. You… you just have to promise me something first, though.”</p><p> </p><p>“What.”</p><p> </p><p>“Promise me that you won’t freak out.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>George doesn’t freak out.</p><p> </p><p>He does, however, <em> pass </em> out.</p><p> </p><p>Dream arranges his roommate’s unconscious body on the couch. The human looks at peace where he lay, despite everything he’d seen and heard over the past few hours, and it gifts the demon just that little inch of contentment.</p><p> </p><p>After his vessel had died - again - with his entity inside of it, Dream’s memory becomes foggy and distressing to recall. He doesn’t really understand what happened or why he’s still wearing the meatsuit that is trying so hard to eject him, but in the warmth of the apartment, he feels a lot better than he did.</p><p> </p><p>Staying warm is definitely helping his condition stay stable. While George is still passed out on the couch, he takes it upon himself to throw his dirty, damp clothes in the laundry and put on layers of things that are much warmer and dryer. The hoodie, sweater, two shirts, sweatpants and fluffy socks he digs out of George’s closet helps him retain as much heat as possible.</p><p> </p><p>As for taking a hot shower, he decides it isn’t for the best. He hasn’t yet looked at the state of his back since he woke up but he doesn’t need to see it to know it’s gotten considerably worse. Putting it under steaming water sounds worse than just giving up and dying right now, to be honest.</p><p> </p><p>Not only that, but the twisted black disease that his entity leaves on the vessel has spread over the past few hours; where it had been just creeping across his back and ribcage earlier, it now lays in patternless lines across his stomach and chest, and has crept all the way down his arms and to his fingertips.</p><p> </p><p>He just feels…</p><p> </p><p>… well, he feels as if he’d just <em> died. </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> After everything that was fed to them as clueless baby demons, there’s nothing to be afraid of after all. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>He wretches into the toilet bowl.</p><p> </p><p>Ten minutes pass and he can hear George stirring on the couch. Dream is hesitant to leave the bathroom, where he sits by the toilet, feeling worse for wear and extremely lightheaded. Existing in this broken vessel is never going to get any easier. “Why did it have to be a dead body…” he groans.</p><p> </p><p>He’d managed to explain a lot of it to George before he had promptly collapsed - what he really is, why he’s really here and the fact that he needs help learning how to get home again - but what he hadn’t slipped in is why they’re on a time limit - AKA, George isn’t yet aware of the fact that his vessel is trying it’s hardest to launch his entity out of it.</p><p> </p><p>Eventually, using the toilet as a crutch, he clambers to his feet and creeps out of the bathroom. George is sitting up on the couch, drinking the water left out for him. He doesn’t appear to notice Dream lingering nearby.</p><p> </p><p>“George?”</p><p> </p><p>Gasping, George throws himself as far away from him as he can manage. He looks terrified; it makes Dream feel sick again. “Don’t move,” he tries to demand, but he’s shaking. “You… you’re crazy.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Ouch. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I wasn’t lying,” Dream tells him.</p><p> </p><p>“There’s no way you’re not crazy,” George pants. “And I think the worst part is- is that it kind of makes… it actually fucking makes <em> sense. </em> I think I’m fu-fucking crazy for even <em> beginning </em>to believe you.”</p><p> </p><p>“You asked me for honesty, George.”</p><p> </p><p>The human shakes his head in disbelief.</p><p> </p><p>It makes sense - in the perspective of a human who’s never encountered this stuff before, it <em> does </em> make him sound nuts. Dream never expected him to just immediately understand. Somewhere inside of him lurks the fear that he’s going to <em> actually </em>lose his human friend after this.</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> promise.” </em></p><p> </p><p>“Prove it.”</p><p> </p><p>It occurs to Dream that there isn’t really anything he <em> can </em>offer as set proof that he is, in fact, a demon from a different realm. Contrary to popular human belief, demonkind don’t have the ability to shoot fire from their hands or melt a human being with their eyes. Human beings can’t really see a demon’s true form properly, either.</p><p> </p><p>“Um,” he starts, “you told me you saw something dark bounce out of my body-”</p><p> </p><p>“-that you <em> stole-” </em></p><p> </p><p>“-when I… when I, uh, died. Yeah?”</p><p> </p><p>Nodding, George looks as if he’s dreading the follow-up.</p><p> </p><p>“That was me.” Dream watches his friend’s facial expression change from disbelief to <em> further </em> disbelief. “I know. I know you don’t believe me, but I’m telling you the honest truth. Human beings… well, they can’t really <em> see </em>demons. I don’t know why. That’s just the way it is.” He swallows, hyperconscious of his body language. “All you see is…”</p><p> </p><p>“...a shadow.”</p><p> </p><p>“Yeah. You got it.”</p><p> </p><p>The human doesn’t look any less shaken, but he doesn’t press himself against the wall like a cowering animal anymore. That’s definitely a step in the right direction. “I can’t believe it,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry, I <em> can’t </em> believe you. I.. I just can’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Dream, in this moment, understands what needs to be done. It’s not what he wants to do and it’ll make getting home trickier, but he’s not incapable. Dare he say it, but he wants what’s best for his human companion just as much as he wants to get home in one piece.</p><p> </p><p>“Look,” he begins. “Watching you be this scared of me after I’ve told you the truth… I get it. My kind have been villainized within human history. It makes sense.” This acknowledgement  weighs heavy in his chest. “I’ll figure this out on my own. You don’t need to be afraid of me anymore.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you telling me that you’re leaving?”</p><p> </p><p>“You shouldn’t have to live with somebody you’re scared of, George.”</p><p> </p><p>“... it’s cold, though.”</p><p> </p><p>The demon shrugs. “I’ll be alright.”</p><p> </p><p>At this, George’s resolve visibly wavers. “You’re 100% sure you’re not going to… like, possess me? Or hurt me?”</p><p> </p><p>Dream sighs. The whole ‘demons bad, people good’ thing is really starting to ride on his nerves. “It’s still <em> me, </em> you know. The only difference is that you know more about me than you did before,” he tells him. “I’d never even think about hurting you. Or-” he cannot help but chuckle at this one, “-possessing you.”</p><p> </p><p>The human still looks conflicted.</p><p> </p><p>“Do you trust me?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Do you trust me?” Sapnap whispers. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>An abrupt spike of pain burns his head, causing him to instinctively grab at it. It feels as if somebody with a vengeance is using a spoon to dig out his brain. “Aagh,” he groans, squeezing his eyes shut.</p><p> </p><p>“Dream? Dream, what’s going on?”</p><p> </p><p>Hands appear on his shoulders, guiding him to the couch. The sharp pain disappeared as quickly as it came, replaced instead by a persistent ache and dizziness that makes him feel sick to the stomach. “Dead body,” he mutters to himself. “I hate dead bodies.”</p><p> </p><p>George stumbles away from him. “What?”</p><p> </p><p>It occurs to Dream that grumbling about corpses, in fact, frowned upon. </p><p> </p><p>“That sounds bad,” he says quickly. “I mean- this- uh, when I fell through the portal, I got thrown into the closest thing that could handle your realm’s atmosphere. This… just so happened to be some poor guy’s corpse. Dead bodies aren’t really good at holding-” he motions towards himself vaguely, “-me, I guess.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence.</p><p> </p><p>And then, out of nowhere, George does the last thing Dream thought he would do.</p><p> </p><p>He <em> laughs. </em></p><p> </p><p>Laughs and laughs and laughs.</p><p> </p><p>So hard, in fact, that he has to use the back of the sofa as a crutch before he loses balance. The skin on his face is red and his eyes are shiny by the time he manages to get a hold of himself again. “You mean to tell me,” he breathes out, “I’ve been living with a dead body? For all this time?”</p><p> </p><p>“Uhh. I guess.” Dream is smiling nervously. “By all technicalities, I am… a reanimated corpse.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’re a zombie!” George laughs harder.</p><p> </p><p>Is this a positive sign? Or is his human companion just dissolving into insanity, driven by recent trauma? People are so random and perplexing.</p><p> </p><p>Still feeling queasy and fatigued, Dream lets his body fall backwards against the couch. At least, he thinks bitterly, George doesn’t want to murder him just yet. It’s not like it’ll be a difficult task what with how weak and feeble he is right now.</p><p> </p><p>“Dream?” comes George’s voice. </p><p> </p><p>The human’s head appears curiously over the back of the couch. Coffeebean-brown eyes look him up and down.</p><p> </p><p>“Like what you see?”</p><p> </p><p>“You look like shit,” he tells Dream.</p><p> </p><p>“I look pretty good for a guy who died three hours ago.”</p><p> </p><p>George rolls his eyes in a very George-like fashion. This <em> definitely </em> has to be a good sign - he hardly even looks frightened anymore. Dream makes an internal note to confront him about how he’s <em> really </em>feeling about everything later on.</p><p> </p><p>“I mean it,” he says. “You look sick.”</p><p> </p><p>The air is quiet.</p><p> </p><p>“I <em> am </em>sick, George,” Dream murmurs. “This vessel is dying.”</p><p> </p><p>He rolls up his sleeve, then, so as to reveal the extent of the damage; the black has spread across his skin in irregular patterns up to his fingertips. It leaves random splotches of untouched skin in its wake.</p><p> </p><p>George’s breath catches in his throat. “Shit.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>lol....<br/>comments rlly help motivate me to write!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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